


When I Come Home

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grey Havens, Journey, Sailing To Valinor, Terminal Illnesses, The West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo Baggins begins his journey to The West but has he remained in Middle Earth for too long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers Of A Nameless Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters places or main events of this tale. They all belong to JRR Tolkien his heirs and anyone else with a finger in the Lord of the Rings pie, and they may never forgive me for what I have done this time.
> 
> For those of a squeamish nature please note that this story follows Frodo on his journey to the Undying Lands. I am NOT following canon. The tale has a rather dark, but I hope sensitive, ending and is intended as an exploration, not as an indication of how I would wish the original work to end. I am quite happy with the master's ending and am only giving in to the nibbling of a persistent little plot bunny.
> 
> The main core of this story is based around role-plays between Elwen_of_the_Hidden_Valley and FrodoBagginsOfBagEnd and I give Febobe full credit for her input to Frodo's characterisation and reactions.

At the sound of a whispered conversation outside his door Frodo turned from the window and his contemplation of the early evening stars beyond, sitting down wearily at his desk. It was a little past nine o'clock but his body insisted that it was much later, begging for the comfort of his bed. Frodo would not give in to it, however. Sleep brought troubles of its own nowadays.

He could not make out the words of the conversation in the hallway but it appeared to be an argument, which was such an unusual event that he set himself to listen harder. Before he could determine its’ content, however, it stopped and he heard Sam's steady footfalls heading off towards the parlour, followed by a light tap at the study door.

"Come in, Rose."

The door swung open and the rattle of crockery preceded the entry of Sam's pretty wife. She carried a large cloth covered tray and Frodo quickly made room for it on the corner of his desk. Rosie set it down gratefully and tweaked aside the cloth, standing folding it as she watched Frodo's eyes widen. The tray was crammed with dishes.

There were small triangular ham sandwiches marching on their ends down the centre of a plate, flanked by fresh washed watercress. On another plate was a slice of cold game pie and next to that a hard-boiled egg had been quartered, dressed in a fine white sauce and sprinkled with grated cheese. Brown bread and butter, cut into fingers was arranged around a little dish of purple skinned radishes and a bowl of finely chopped tomato and onion, in a liquor of cider vinegar and sugar. A slice of rich fruit cake shared a small plate with a cube of crumbly white cheese and next to that was a dish of quartered apples and pears in a light syrup, dressed with a dab of smooth creamy custard. Finally, there was a pot of tea with a jug of fresh milk, and a small dish of honey.

"You didn't eat much at dinner so I've brought you a bite of supper."

Frodo forced a light laugh. "You made a lovely dinner, Rose and I ate my fill. I'm not sure I shall do justice to such a lovely spread as this."

Rosie tucked the folded cloth into the waistband of her apron and set her hands upon her hips. "You may have eaten your fill, Frodo Baggins, but it weren't the fill of a grown hobbit . . . more like that of a sparrow . . . and don't you try to deny it."

Frodo sat back in his chair, surprised at her strong words. It was unlike Rose and he was so taken aback that he was rendered speechless for a while. Rose pressed her advantage.

"You may have fooled Sam with your pushing of a small bit of food around your plate and bright talk to try and distract us. But I know what goes into those tureens before they reach the table, I know how much me and Sam eat, and I see what comes back to my kitchen. You hardly eat enough to keep body and soul together."

Frodo finally gathered his wits. "I'm sorry Rose. I'm just a little under the weather of late. I didn't intend to worry you."

"Under the weather of late?" Rosie folded her arms. "It's been longer than, "of late". Sam and me have noticed that your walks have got shorter and shorter these last months. You don't even go down into Hobbiton any more, ever since that day a couple of months ago when Sam found you standin’ in the hall gaspin’, after you'd been out to the bakers." When Frodo's eyebrows shot up in surprise she nodded. "Oh yes, he told me. We don't have no secrets from each other. It's hard to keep secrets when you're living under the same roof and you’d do well to remember that.

For instance . . . you've been wearing that baggy old tweed jacket all summer. It hides your shape from most people but I’ve seen how thin you are under it. And you've been gettin’ thinner. You're sick, Mr Frodo. That's why you're going to Rivendell. You don't think the doctors in the Shire can help you and you're going to see that elf . . . that Master Whats-his-name."

"Elrond," Frodo supplied quietly.

"That's him." Rosie unfolded her arms and stepped closer to his desk, her voice softening. "I don't mind that you're goin’. And I'm glad you're taking my Sam to look after you. But are you strong enough for such a long journey if you can't even make it into Hobbiton? It’ll kill my Sam if you . . . if you . . . you know." Her words petered out.

Frodo closed his eyes and thought for a moment before replying a little contritely. "It seems there's no fooling you two. I'm sorry that I've worried you." He straightened the cushion in the small of his back. "You're right. I am going to see Lord Elrond because I'm ill. I'm very ill Rose and I'm getting worse, but I think I can make it to my destination and we will be using the ponies." He smiled, trying to lighten his words. "Strider and Bill need another outing. They're getting too fat and lazy."

Rosie's face softened. "I'm sorry to go on so, but I was worried and I wanted you to know that we cared. Sam said it weren't our place to speak up but I told him he was wrong. You don't have Mr Bilbo no more and it ain't right for someone to be alone, especially when they're not well. I just wanted you to know that you’ve only to ask and I'll do whatever I can to ease you. Sam will, that goes without saying, but I've come to be right fond of you too."

Frodo sighed with relief. "Oh Rose. Thank you. It's been so hard trying to put a brave face on it. But you have a baby to care for and I didn't want to burden you with my troubles."

"Bless you, Mr Frodo. You're not a trouble, leastwise when you’re not tryin’ to hide stuff from us as you shouldn’t. You're the sweetest, kindest hobbit I've ever met, apart from my Sam of course. And babies is easy. You feed ‘em, wash ‘em and love ‘em." Rosie wiped her hands on her apron. "Now we've got that all said and understood . . . is there anything you want that’s not on that tray. Just say the word and I'll fetch it. And don't you worry about finishing it. I'll not press but please try a little."

Just for you, Rose. And I can't think of anything else that I would rather have to eat. I'll try a little."

"Right then. I'll leave you to it and your writing." With that Rose turned to leave. Just as she reached the door Frodo's gentle voice fell on her ears.

"Sam's a very lucky hobbit to have you, Rose. You make him whole."

Rosie turned. "No more than he makes me, sir." And with that she left, closing the study door quietly behind her.

Frodo leaned back in his chair once more. His decision to leave had been correct. He could not blight their lives any longer. He felt so weary and yet he could not sleep for his dreams were dark, leaving him whimpering and sweating more often than not. Sometimes he had even screamed, waking little Elanor, and Sam had to come running to comfort him while Rose saw to their child.

He had to go. What sort of a life would Elanor have with him in the house? He would grow weaker and weaker, taking up more of Sam and Rose's time. The poor child would be forever shushed because Uncle Frodo was resting or not feeling well. No. He must leave now. But had he left it too late?


	2. Shadows Of The Past

This chapter contains direct or slightly paraphrased quotes from The Return of the King.

 

"Happy birthday, Mr Frodo. I just realised – we've been riding all day and I haven't wished you a happy birthday." Sam looked a little shamefaced. “I don’t have a present for you neither.”

"Thank you, Sam. I have a present for you but I’ll give you it later if you don’t mind." Frodo pulled his cloak closer, beginning to feel the chill of the autumn night close in around them.

"Why, bless you, Mr Frodo. I thought this were my present and if it isn't then it’ll suit me fine as one. To be out riding with you again, to see dear old Mr Bilbo and all those elves and to visit Rivendell without any cloud hanging over us . . . that's present enough for me."

Frodo leaned forward to pat Strider's neck, feeling rather guilty. He wanted to tell Sam that they were not making for Rivendell but he did not know how to break the news of his impending departure. And he could not bring himself to spoil his friend's happy mood. Suddenly, Sam brought Bill to a halt and, riding just behind him, Frodo was forced to rein in Strider sharply, causing the pony to give a little whicker of concern. 

"If that isn't the very tree me and Mr Pippin hid behind when the Black Rider first showed up, Mr Frodo!" said Sam, pointing to the left. "It seems like a dream now."

A chill descended on Frodo's heart as his eyes followed Sam's finger to the age blasted oak and from there to the dip in the ground where he had thrown himself. Not so much a dream but a nightmare, and one that still haunted him. Sam started forward once more and Frodo was obliged to follow, although the chill grew and his left shoulder began to ache awfully, with each step that took him closer to the memory of his first encounter with the Ring Wraith. He began to wish that they had cut across country to avoid this place but his last shortcut had not been a roaring success.

Sam began to draw further ahead. The younger hobbit's pony had travelled several steps beyond the tree when, realising that he was alone, he turned around, his eyes widening in horror at what he saw. "Mr Frodo! Are you alright?"

Frodo did not hear him however, for at that moment he drew level with the tree. He cringed, moaning as his right hand lifted to clutch at his left shoulder. Anguished eyes rolled upwards and he swayed in the saddle before sliding slowly to the ground. There was one agonised scream, as his left shoulder hit the earth and then dark lashes fluttered shut and he lay cold and still as death upon a drift of last years’ leaves.

jumping from Bill, Sam ran back to his master, desperately checking that he was still breathing before gathering him against his chest and gently patting the pale cheeks, trying in vain to rouse him. Frodo was chill to his touch and yet bathed in perspiration and for several moments Sam was at a loss what to do. Frodo's left hand lay still and cold but his right was lying close to the bright jewel Sam knew hung on a fine silver chain about his neck. It was then that Sam remembered a day, several months ago, when Frodo had lain thus. Lifting his friend's hand in his, Sam wrapped it about the jewel and sighed in relief as he saw the irregular movements of his master's chest slow and even out. But there was still no sign of returning consciousness.

Finally making the connection between the tree and Frodo's collapse, Sam lifted him in his arms. "Well, Mr Frodo, I've carried you before and I can do it again." With that he stood, surprised once more at how little Frodo weighed. Now that he held him Sam regretted the arguments with Rosie. It would seem that his wife was more astute than he, even when it came to Frodo. Sam could almost feel his master's ribs, through the thickness of jacket and cloak. He clucked softly and the two ponies followed him as he walked as far from the accursed tree as he could with his precious bundle. Finding a small clearing a little way from the road, Sam laid down his burden and began to wrap him in all the blankets from their packs. After that there was little he could do, except sit at Frodo’s side and bathe his face with cold water from their canteens.

It was nearly an hour before Frodo's eyelids began to flutter and a faint flush of colour returned to his cheeks and lips. There was a soft sigh and then blue eyes opened and tried to focus on the world. "Where are we? What happened?"

Sam supported Frodo with an arm around his back as he made to sit up dazedly. "We're on the Stock Road. Near the Woody End."

Frodo blinked, trying in vain to collect his scattered wits. "We can't stay here . . . the black rider."

Sam laid a gentle hand, holding a dampened handkerchief, on Frodo's brow. "He’s gone, Mr Frodo. He was destroyed, along with the Ring."

Frodo closed his eyes again, shuddering as his hand moved to clutch the jewel about his neck more closely. He had not let go since Sam had placed it there. "Yes, of course." He opened his eyes and smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was confused for a moment. Did I fall off the pony?"

Not sure whether Frodo even remembered the tree, Sam decided not to mention it in case it triggered a relapse. "That's right. Perhaps we should camp here for the night and move on in the morning, when you've had more rest. You took quite a tumble."

To Sam's surprise, Frodo resisted, pushing aside the blankets and trying to rise. "No. We must move on tonight."

Sam rushed to help, supporting him when he stumbled. "I’m not sure this is a good idea. You still look a mite unsteady to me." He continued to help Frodo to mount, however.

Once settled back on Strider, Frodo smiled down at him. "Come on, Sam. It’s not far."

“What’s not far?” asked Sam as he collected the reins of his own pony. 

Frodo only smiled enigmatically. “You’ll see.”

Sam sighed, well aware that once his master set his mind to something there was no shifting him from the path. He clambered up onto Bill and followed him from the clearing and back onto the road. As soon as there was room however, Sam moved alongside so that he could catch Frodo if he showed signs of falling again. But although he continued pale and quiet, Frodo seemed fairly steady once more and they rode through the star filled night thus for some time.

The road headed down a hill between hazel thickets and Sam was silent too, deep in memories. Presently he became aware that Frodo was singing softly to himself. The voice was weak but it had always carried a tune well. He was singing the old walking song that Bilbo had taught him, but the words were not quite the same.

“Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate;  
And though I oft have passed them by,  
A day will come at last when I  
Shall take the hidden paths that run  
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”

And as if in answer, from down below, coming up the road out of the valley, sweet voices sang:

“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!  
Silivren penna miriel  
O menel aglar elenath,  
Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!  
We still remember, we who dwell  
In this far land beneath the trees  
The starlight on the Western Seas.”

Frodo smiled softly and the two travellers waited as a pale glimmer came through the woods towards them. There was Gildor, once more and many other fair elven folk; and there to Sam's wonder rode Elrond and Galadriel.

The Lady sat upon a white palfrey and was robed all in glimmering white, like clouds about the Moon; for she herself seemed to shine with a soft light. On her finger was Nenya, the ring wrought of mithril, that bore a single white stone flickering like a frosty star. Galadriel smiled upon them. "Well, Master Samwise," she said. "I hear and see that you have used my gift well. The Shire shall now be more than ever blessed and beloved."

Sam bowed, but found nothing to say. He had forgotten how beautiful the Lady was.

Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star bound upon his forehead, and a silver harp was in his hand. Upon his finger, worn openly at last, was a ring of gold with a great blue stone, Vilya, mightiest of the Three. His keen healer's eye fell upon Frodo and he nudged his horse closer to the tiny hobbit, although he said nothing, other than to greet both travellers gravely and graciously.

Riding slowly behind on a small grey pony, and seeming to nod in his sleep, was none other than Bilbo. He woke up and opened his eyes. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said. "Well, I have passed the Old Took today! So that's settled. And now I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?"

"Yes, I am coming," said Frodo with a fond smile. "The Ring-bearers should go together."

"Where are you going, Master?" cried Sam, though at last he thought he understood what was happening.

"To the Havens, Sam," said Frodo.

"And I can't come."

"No, Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ring-bearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do."

"But," said Sam, and tears gathered in his hazel eyes, "I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you’ve done."

"So I thought too once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.

But my birthday present to you is to make you my heir: all that I had and might have had I leave to you. And also you have Rose, and Elanor; and Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see.

You will be the most famous gardener in history; and will read things out of the Red Book, and keep alive the memory of the age that is gone, so that people will remember the Great Danger and so love their beloved land all the more." 

His voice took on a note of pleading. "Will you ride with me on this last journey? I know I am being a little selfish in this, but I did want us to ride together one last time." Even as he spoke Frodo could see the world turning grey and a wave of heat and nausea washed through him.

Sam watched his master's eyebrows draw together in confusion and his eyes roll up in their sockets. "Mr Frodo!"

Elrond had been watching Frodo closely, however, and as soon as he saw the blue eyes begin to glaze he handed off his harp to Gildor and sprang from the saddle just in time to catch the hobbit as he slid from his pony. The smallest Ringbearer was cradled in Elrond's arms as the elven lord glanced up at Gildor.

"We need somewhere to make camp for a few hours. Know you of a place nearby?"

Gildor nodded, as he secured Elrond's harp to the saddle. "Indeed. Very close. Follow me." With that he took the reins of the elf lord's horse and led the way off the road and into the woods. Galadriel reached down and drew Elrond's cloak about Frodo to protect him from the chill night air, before the elf began to follow their guide, his long smooth stride eating up the ground as fast as any pony.

Sam spurred Bill, taking the reins of Frodo's pony, Strider and following Elrond as closely as he may. "Please, sir . . . What's the matter with my master? He got taken sick back on the road a ways and now this."

Elrond's voice was clear but quiet, no more than a whisper of leaves to anyone passing on the road. "His body and spirit have endured too much, Samwise. He is failing.

"Oh no! Please don't let him go. Please, Master Elrond."

Elrond paused, looking across at Sam, where he sat trembling upon Bill. "I and my kin will do all we can to aid him in holding to the world, but I cannot return a life once it has fled. Only one has that power and I am not privy to his thoughts." With those words he turned swiftly and followed Gildor through the coppice once more.


	3. The Choices Of Frodo Baggins

Sam glanced around the glade from his place by the fire, eating his supper dutifully. It had taken only minutes for the elves to arrive at this camping area and not much longer to light a fire and prepare food. He had sat at Frodo’s side while they did, but as soon as the food was ready the Lady herself called him away and placed a plate of supper in his lap. He could hardly refuse her, so here he sat, but his eyes kept straying across the clearing, to where Lord Elrond sat, cross-legged by the side of a still unconscious Frodo.

Sheltered from Sam’s anxious gaze by Elrond’s back, Frodo lay almost perfectly still, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest and stomach with each breath. Had Bilbo been as he was while the Ring held fast his age, he would have been pushing at the elven lord’s elbow, demanding to know what caused his adopted child’s breathing to come in such short, soft catches. . .but he sat nearby, nodding after only a light meal.

Sam pushed at the lightly cooked vegetables and small piece of poached trout, picking at it distractedly.

“Now you get that eaten, Sam Gamgee. Whatever would the Gaffer say to you wasting good food?”

Jumping guiltily at the voice, Sam looked up to meet Bilbo’s cloudy gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just that worried about Mr Frodo,” Sam replied.

“Fiddlesticks! Master Elrond will sort him out quickly enough. They say he is the greatest healer in Middle earth. So stop your fretting.”

Sam took up a spoonful of vegetables and chewed slowly. They did taste very good, but his eyes kept returning to his master. “Mr Frodo’s not been right ever since Mordor. I thought he would get better but . . . And Lord Elrond says he may not be able to heal him this time.” The gentle gardener gave way to tears at last. “I don’t think I could bear to watch him . . . to watch . . . I couldn’t.”

“Good gracious, lad. Don’t take on so. We’re travelling with powerful folk. And anyway, that ring of his will protect him. It kept me well for many a year.” Bilbo wagged a trembling finger, his voice holding a note of certainty.

Sam looked at him in some dismay. “But the Ring is gone. That’s why he had to go to Mordor, to destroy the Ring, and that’s why he’s so sick now.”

Confusion settled on Bilbo’s lined face. “Destroy the ring? Whatever for? Why go all that way to get rid of a piece of jewellery?” His eyes grew distant and his hand began to pat his waistcoat pocket absently. “Now where did I put it?”

Sam resisted the urge to shudder. “It was evil, Mr Bilbo. It had to be destroyed. And seemingly, Mr Frodo was the only one that could do it. But it hurt him so bad.” He broke off into choking sobs, the plate of food forgotten.

Confused as he was about the reason for his nephew’s illness and the severity of it, still Bilbo could recognise distress when he saw it and was not so far gone that he could not feel compassion. He reached out and laid an arm about Sam, pulling him close and rubbing the shaking shoulders. “Shhhhhhh, lad. It will all come right.”

Sam was not convinced.

Elrond sensed Frodo’s return to consciousness before any outward sign and sent word for warm broth. At last the heavy eyelashes fluttered, raven against the spectrally white cheeks and after some minutes of effort, Frodo opened his eyes, blinking with confusion. Replacing the damp cloth across Frodo’s brow, Elrond watched the shadowed blue eyes carefully.

“How are you feeling, Frodo?” He tucked warm soft blankets around the hobbit and waited for the eyes to focus.

“Thirsty, terribly thirsty.” Frodo struggled to focus on the figure above him, his breath swift and shallow. The face, with its curtain of shining dark hair, gradually registered in his mind . . . Lord Elrond. Was he in Rivendell? “Where are we?”

Elrond lifted a tiny, delicately carved alabaster bottle from a small wooden box at his side. “We are in a glade in the Woody End. Will you take some medicine for me? Then you can have some broth.”

Frodo’s words came in short snatches, between shallow breaths. “Where we first met Gildor and the others, isn’t it?” He smiled faintly, pleased to have made the connection through the fog in his mind. 

Elrond’s voice was calm and quiet, soothing music in his ears. “The same.” He removed the stopper from the translucent bottle and slid a hand beneath Frodo’s head, one finger touching the small cleft-chin to gently prize apart pale lips. “This medicine will help to strengthen you.” Five drops of golden liquid landed on Frodo’s tongue and then Elrond set the bottle back in the box and waited for him to swallow, fingers held at the pulse in Frodo’s chilled throat. 

A weak motion. Quite slowly, Frodo swallowed and his lips regained the slightest pink tint as the medicine began to take effect: there was no flush of returning colour along the high, sharply etched cheekbones however. 

Behind them, Gildor and another arrived with heated stones, wrapped in pieces of torn blanket and Elrond supervised their placement around his charge. Although Frodo was not shivering, indeed there was a pale sheen of perspiration on his body, the flesh was icy cold. Too often in his long life had the ancient healer seen this combination of symptoms and his heart wept, for they usually preceded a departure from this world. It would take all of his skill to get Frodo through this journey.

Slowly Frodo’s right hand sought out the gem on its chain about his neck, fastening over it so tightly that his knuckles blanched. Elrond gave silent thanks for his daughter’s foresight, so many miles away as he added some Miruvor to a cup of broth. Lifting Frodo, he slid some wadded blankets beneath the small shoulders and head, leaning him back into their support before touching the cup to his lips. “Will you try a little of this?”

Frodo yielded readily enough. Weakly he ventured a small sip, tasting, and then another. “I felt so cold earlier. And then terribly hot.”

Elrond held the cup patiently. “You have perhaps, stayed longer in the Shire than you should. Your body weakens swiftly now.” A gentle hand rested upon Frodo’s chest and heat grew beneath the palm to permeate slowly through chilled flesh. “I waited for your message some weeks before deciding to make my own plans for departure. I thought you may have chosen to remain in Middle-earth after all.”

“I almost had.” Frodo’s voice quailed, soft with regret. “I had almost begun to think that I could. That perhaps I should stay.” He glanced anxiously toward the other side of the camp, where Sam sat, talking with Bilbo.

“As it is, I fear I may have stayed too late, and will hurt Sam all the more now.” Slowly, almost hesitantly, he continued to take the broth, swallowing weakly. The warmth was hardly felt, though his limbs began to relax a little, and some of the perspiration still breaking out across his pale brow eased.

Noting the slight improvement Elrond decided it was time to be sure of Frodo’s intentions. “I will use all my skill to bring you safely to the West, Frodo. But there are some things that even I cannot hold back forever. You must tell me now whether you wish to continue your journey, or whether you would rather return to your home. But I must warn you that should you return now, you will never again have the strength to make this journey.”

Silently Frodo gazed up at him; blue eyes dark as an overcast winter’s morning with snow approaching, then looked away, sighing softly. For a long moment he remained quiet, not speaking, and Elrond began to wonder whether he had understood. 

Then Frodo’s faint voice drifted on the cold night air. “I want to spare Sam this last torment. For that is what it would be for him.” He swallowed tensely. “If you are willing, I would rather continue.” Vivid blue eyes met Elrond’s directly, their intensity absolutely coherent. “Regardless of what happens.”

“I believe you have chosen wisely. To remain in the Shire is to force your friend to witness a swift fading. After all that you have been through together I think he would find that a bitter indeed, although I know he would see it through to the end.” The grey eyes that met his were gentle as summer rain. “This way there is some chance of healing. But if your recovery is not to be I will do all that I can to ease your passage. And, regardless of the outcome, Sam will not be left to travel home alone, for I will send some of my people as escort.”

“Thank you.” There was no smile, and yet Frodo looked grateful, giving a slight nod. “At first I thought I wanted to die at home, at Bag End with all my old, familiar things. I hoped for Sam and Rosie beside me. But I find I cannot bear to force them, and little Elanor, on that bitter journey.”

Elrond continued to coax sips of the fortified broth into Frodo, aware of the soft sound of sobbing coming from the pair of hobbits seated at the fire behind him, and grateful it was probably too low to disturb Frodo. “No friend would wish to ask another to walk that road with them and yet, from what I have seen of Samwise Gamgee, he would not leave you to make that journey alone if he knew it must be taken . . . as he did not once before.”

Frodo’s voice took on a firmer edge, despite its thinness. “All the more reason not to place him in such a position again.”

The elf laid a gentle hand upon Frodo’s brow and then touched fingers to his throat. The life flow was stronger than before and some warmth had crept back to his flesh, the perspiration drying. “You should rest. Do you need anything from your pack? And Sam tells me that your sleep has been troubled. I can supply something to help you rest without dreams if you wish.” Elrond removed the additional support at Frodos’ back, pushing the heated stones closer.

“Yes please. I have terrible dreams.” Even the thought evoked a fresh sheen of perspiration. “But before you do, could you reach into my pack? There is a small piece of fabric I should like to hold.”  
Frodo’s pack had been lying behind him all this time. Trying not to pry too closely at the contents Elrond, nonetheless, had to sort through them carefully to find the tiny square of fabric, no bigger than his outstretched fingers. “Is this it?”

Immediate relief washed over Frodo’s pale face. “Yes that’s it.” He mustered a faint effort at smiling. “It may seem silly but this is a piece of a quilt made for me by my mother when I was just a faunt.”

Elrond examined the pale blue and lilac pieces, worked into a delicate design of primula flowers. “The stitching is exquisite. As fine as any I have seen.” He handed it over before turning his attention back to the wooden box at his side, drawing out another small bottle. “This will work quickly in your present condition, and I promise that you will sleep without dreams.”

Five drops of a sweet brown liquid landed smoothly on Frodo’s tongue and were swallowed quickly, though not without difficulty. Closing his fingers tightly over the square, Frodo curled up in his nest of covers and makeshift pillow. The healer shook out another blanket, draping it over the tiny form, then he looked up, seeking Galadriel’s gaze and his inner voice reached out to her mind. “We can break camp in a little while. He will not be disturbed by the movement.”

The Lady of the Golden Wood nodded imperceptibly and arose, issuing the instructions to leave.

Elrond looked down at Frodo, seeing what mortal eyes could not. Within the failing body lay the cause of Frodo’s illness. The Ring had wrapped itself about the bright and delicate fae, as convolvulus wraps itself about a plant to strangle it, and when the Ring was torn from Frodo it took parts of his shining fae with it, tearing great rents in the fabric. Elrond could see where Aragorn had tried to draw some of the edges together when he tended Frodo in Ithilien, but the remaining fabric was too frail and the stitches had finally pulled away.

It was to be hoped that the hobbit’s sacrifice would bring an end to pain, for others, if not for Frodo. It would be pity indeed if it did not. Perhaps with the birth of this new age, Middle-earth would find some measure of peace.


	4. The Three Towers

Frodo knew little of the next two days but for Sam they were some of the longest in his life.

As soon as he saw that the elves were preparing to leave he abandoned his largely untouched supper and ran over to his friend, hesitating a moment when he saw Lord Elrond, with eyes closed, resting a hand upon Frodo’s breast, above his heart. The elf sensed his presence however, beckoning him forward, and Sam took up station on the ground at Frodo’s opposite side. “How is he?”

Elrond withdrew his hand and began to pack bottles into an intricately carved wooden box. “He awoke for a little while and took some broth. I gave him something to help him sleep and he rests now.”

Sam smoothed back the dark curls from Frodo’s brow, relieved to find his skin a little warmer, although the finely chiselled face was still too pale. Sam was reminded of a sudden of one of Mr Bilbo’s best china cups, a tea service that had disappeared during the Sackville-Baggins tenure of Bag End. The service had been made of the finest white china, so light it felt as though it would float away if you let go, and when held up to the window the light shone through, giving the impression that it glowed.

“He’s been ill for months, although he tried to hide it from me and Rosie. But he’s been worse these past few weeks,” Sam offered.

Elrond settled back on his heels. “He has been ill for more than a few weeks, or even a few months. In truth he has not been completely well since he was stabbed.”

Sam gaped. “Surely not that long? I know he’s been sick since Mordor but I didn’t think it was that long.”

“It has been a slow decline, only accelerated by the loss of the Ring. Large parts of his soul were dragged from him when he lost it and the wounds inflicted have never fully healed, nor are they likely to, while he remains in Middle-earth. But in the Undying Lands he has perhaps some hope of recovery.”

“Hope?” Sam had caught a hind of uncertainty in the elf’s voice.

“He is very ill, Samwise. Even the skill of the elves and the virtue of the Undying Lands may not be sufficient to repair such damage as he has sustained. But if he remains in Middle-earth the decline will reach its inevitable conclusion.” Elrond released a small sigh. “If we can bring him safely to the West he has some chance for a few more years of peaceful life. There is a power there greater than mine.”

Sam’s gaze returned to the peaceful face of his master. “He’s still set on going then?”

“Yes. I asked him whether he was still intent upon the journey before I sent him into sleep.”

The gardener did not dare look into the elf’s face as he asked his next question. “Will he make it; do you think?”

There was a pause that seemed to Sam to stretch out into infinity, then the soft music of Lord Elrond’s voice drifted to him across Frodo’s still form. “I do not know.” A large but gentle hand touched his shoulder in comfort and Sam found that tears were sliding down his cheeks once more.

Camp was broken as quickly as it had been set up and, when Sam looked about the clearing as he remounted, there was no evidence that the elves had ever been there. He looked up at the tall, figure seated upon a grey stallion at his side. He could not see Frodo, although he knew he was there, held safe within the shadow of Lord Elrond’s great cloak. Sam had watched closely as Gildor had handed up the blanket wrapped, sleeping hobbit and Elrond had settled him in the crook of his left arm, drawing his own cloak about him, almost like a tent.

Bilbo rode a little way behind, nodding as he drowsed, the reigns of his pony held in Gildor’s sure hands.

They travelled on, through the unfamiliar White Downs and then on to the Far Downs. Under other circumstances Sam would have been craning his neck, taking great interest in the new landscape but now he only had eyes for the grey figure at his side and the precious bundle that he carried.

After a while, Sam noticed that Lord Elrond did not hold the reins of his horse, but steered with his knees, for with one arm he cradled Frodo while his other hand rested upon the small chest. Sometimes, when Ithil had hidden his face behind a cloud, Sam fancied that he saw a pale silver glimmer coming from the depths of Elrond’s cloak and he wondered whether it came from Lord Elrond or from his master.

The elves travelled mainly through the evening and night, making camp in a hollow of the land during the daylight hours. They moved like a pale mist across the landscape, silent and unremarked.  
As the sky lightened to grey on the third day, and the fingers of the White Towers rose from the mist of a chill autumn morning, Sam noticed that one of the other elves took the reins of Lord Elrond’s horse; and when they stopped to camp the elf lord had to be helped to dismount.

Sam hovered by Elrond as Frodo was settled upon a thick bed of dry bracken and then sat at his master’s side, determined that he would not be parted from him, for Frodo seemed to be stirring at last. To his surprise, Lord Elrond was turned and led away by the Lady Galadriel and it was Gildor who leaned down to hand Sam a small silver flask.

“Lord Elrond says that your master will awaken shortly, Samwise. When he does you should give him a little of this Miruvor and some broth that will be sent across to you once it can be warmed.” As soon as Sam accepted the flask, Gildor left and the little hobbit felt very alone of a sudden. His eyes sought out Bilbo and the wizened hobbit arose from his place at the fire to wondered over, a vague smile on his lips. With much grunting he lowered himself slowly to the ground next to Sam.

“Don’t you worry, lad. Master Elrond will sort him out.” He patted the youngster’s hand.

A gentle sigh at his side drew Sam’s attention back to his charge and he waited as Frodo’s dark eyelashes fluttered open.

At the other side of the camp, Elrond was seated in the shade of a lone ash tree, with Galadriel at his side. The Lady’s voice was as light as spring rain.

“You cannot go on feeding Frodo your own strength in this way. We are a strong people but even we have our limits.” She pushed her kinsman’s hood back from his face to let the early sun warm it. “You have not the use of Vilya to support you. Its power has faded.”

Elrond’s grey eyes met those of his marriage mother firmly. “It was elven greed and pride that helped to bring about the existence of the One Ring; the ring that we sent Frodo to destroy. I owe it to him and to my daughter to help now and I will not abandon him while I have the strength to do so.”

The voice of the Lady of the Golden Wood carried a small note of censure as she brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Elrond’s cheek. “I did not suggest that you abandon him, nor would I ever do so. I simply stated that you could not continue to use your own strength. I suppose such stubborn independence is to be expected from one with such an upbringing as yours’ but I would have thought that all the years you have spent in this world would have taught you something.”

He let his eyes slide away from her piercing gaze. He rarely won any verbal battle with Galadriel, even when he had all his wits about him, and at the moment he was too weary to even try. “Then, what do you suggest?”

“You do not travel alone. Allow us to aid you for we too, owe Master Baggins much.” Galadriel laid a pale and slender hand upon his and Elrond blinked in surprise, taking a deep breath as his arid fae was flooded with the clear shining water of her strength.

“Thank you.” His eyes met hers again, seeing within them for a moment an echo of his wife. Then her gaze grew distant and she murmured. “He is awakening. You had better go to him.”

Sam looked up in relief as Elrond approached. Frodo was swallowing the broth he was coaxing him with but he seemed only half-aware of his surroundings, the blue eyes drifting in and out of focus. The healer settled on the ground at Sam’s side, laying the carved box of his herbal at his side.

Slowly, with an effort, the vivid morning-glory eyes began to focus. Another mouthful went down with clear difficulty: this time Frodo nearly choked, wincing as the broth went down the wrong way and at once, Elrond’s gentle hands lifted him, patting his back lightly to aid its return.

“Please . . . no more. I can’t,” Frodo whimpered. He desperately wanted the liquid but the effort was just too much.

“It is alright, Frodo. I can assist you to swallow.” The elf lifted the cup from Sam’s fingers. “Let me take over, Sam. You sit behind your master and support him against your chest.”

The gardener was quick to comply and Elrond leaned Frodo back into the security of his friends’ arms. The small wooden herbal was opened and a bottle removed. “Time for a little more medicine.”

The look that crossed Frodo’s face was clearly a silent groan and the Ringbearer blinked fretfully, the change in position seeming to help his breathing, though it worsened his pallor.

“There now, Mr. Frodo,” soothed Sam, his voice quiet and reassuring. “Just a drop. You can do this. You can.” But there was a hint of doubt in the hazel eyes. Sam was very worried at his friend’s deteriorating health.

Far from convinced, Frodo looked up at Elrond anxiously but opened his mouth slightly, ready for additional liquid. The small alabaster bottle of tincture was opened again and Elrond slipped five tiny drops between Frodo’s lips.

“That is all the medicine.” He touched gentle fingers to Frodo’s throat. There was another effort and, with the additional impetus of Elrond will, the muscles of Frodo’s throat worked. The medicine went down, swallowed without further incident.

Sam smiled, visibly relieved, as he rubbed Frodo’s arm gently. “There now, Mr. Frodo. All done.”

Taking up the cup of fortified broth in one hand, the healer continued press fingers to Frodo’s throat. “Hold him steady, Samwise.” He trickled a little of the warm, light liquid into his charge’s mouth, helping him to swallow once more.

Frodo concentrated upon swallowing so he flinched in surprise when he heard his uncle’s voice. He had been so focussed upon Sam and Elrond that he had not noticed Bilbo sitting at his other side. “Hello Frodo, my lad. Not feeling too well? You should look after yourself better, you know.”

Frodo tried a smile; the merest curl of the corners of his lips. “Just tired Bilbo. I’m sure I will feel better soon.”

“It’s not like you,” Bilbo noted with some confusion.

“It was the Ring,” Frodo tried to explain, knowing even as he said it that Bilbo would probably not understand. He was not sure he entirely understood himself.

Bilbo’s face cleared. “Oh. Whatever happened to that old ring of mine?”

Frodo’s heart sank at the words. Bilbo would be his only link with home when he arrived in the West. There would be no one else with which to share his thoughts and now he quailed at the idea.

Elrond glanced across the dell at Gildor and the guide nodded, approaching the little to rest a hand lightly on the old hobbit’s shoulder. “Come along, Master Bilbo. Your bed is prepared. Let us leave your nephew to the care of Samwise and Lord Elrond.”

Bilbo smiled vaguely and allowed the tall elf to help him up. “You have a good rest, Frodo. You’ll feel better for it.” And with that he allowed himself to be lead away.

“Try to swallow a little more. You will need the strength for the journey ahead.” Elrond brushed a tear from Frodo’s cheek and seemed to know the direction of his thoughts. “The Undying Lands may bring a measure of healing to Bilbo too.”

Frodo blinked, bringing his eyes to meet the deep pools of wisdom that were Elrond’s. “Is that possible?”

There was a slight inclination of the elf’s head. “He was affected by the Ring too. Perhaps you will both find the healing you seek.”

“Thank you for that hope.” Slowly Frodo’s gaze focussed in confusion upon something beyond Elrond’s broad shoulder. Frodo could make out, in the far distance, a squat white tower, it’s conical roof long ruined, whether by age and the elements or some other event he could not tell. Much closer was another tower, its slender, pale stone finger pointing to the clear blue sky of a fine autumn day that had emerged from the dawn mist. In a better state of repair, its roof was flat and balustraded.

Frodo faltered, closing his lips against further nourishment. “Those towers; I know them. Am I dreaming?”

Elrond’s fingers slid to one side to check the pulse at Frodo’s jaw. “You are not dreaming, Frodo. You have drowsed away three nights and two days and we are at the White Towers. The third tower is behind you, somewhat ruined I am afraid, and we are about to climb Elostirion to signal Himlond of our imminent arrival.”

Frodo shook his head slightly. “I saw them in my dream.” He was frustrated at his body’s weakness, speaking with difficulty. “The one I’ve had so many times. Ever since I was a faunt.” The sun had now cleared the horizon and blue eyes gazed up longingly at the glistening shapes. “You can see the sea from there, I’m sure.”

Elrond gave up trying to coax broth between pale lips. “Yes. You can see Mithlond and beyond that, the Gulf of Lhun and the Sea. Gildor will be climbing to the top shortly to signal.” He nodded to their left, where Gildor was untying a large drawstring bag from his pack. “I did not know that you had ever seen the Sea.”

“I haven’t.” Frodo turned his head slightly to watch Gildor, blue eyes darkening with longing. “I’ve only had dreams about it. And always in my dream you can see the Sea from those towers. Sometimes I even felt that if I could concentrate a little harder I may even see beyond.”

Elrond leaned back on his heels, setting the unfinished cup on the ground. None but he, Galadriel and Gildor knew of the other reason for stopping here. The only palantir capable of looking to the West resided in a chamber near the top of Elostirion and they would be taking it with them. If Frodo had felt its presence even before his quest this truly was a remarkable hobbit. It gave him some consolation to think that perhaps Frodo had been chosen for the task of Ringbearer long before Elrond had allowed him to volunteer for the task. 

He assessed his charge. It was unlikely that he would be able to press Frodo to take more of the broth in his present frame of mind and perhaps sight of the Sea would strengthen him. It was a long climb but Frodo was light enough for him to carry. In truth he was too light. “Would you like me to take you to the top?”

“Would you?” Frodo’s eyes widened at once: he had seemed listless for so long but now the blue eyes brightened. “Please. I’d love that.”

Sam’s face grew concerned, however. “It’s awful high for a hobbit, sir. I don’t hold with such heights.” It would not do to add vertigo to his master’s discomfort. 

The dark curls moved and Frodo tilted his head back to look at his friend, his gaze resolute and firm. “Sam, I’ve never seen the Sea and I want to, more than anything in the world.”

And Sam could not refuse Frodo . . . had never been able to refuse him, even when he had known that they were travelling into danger. “Alright, Mister Frodo. As long as Master Elrond is there to look after you.” His gaze was equally resolute when he looked up at Lord Elrond and added pointedly, “As I’m certain, sure he will.”

Elrond’s features did not move but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I will take good care of your master, Samwise. I would not wish to incur the wrath of his doughty protector.”

Sam blushed and then swallowed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Frodo...but I don’t think I could go all the way up there.”

“It’s all right, Sam. Perhaps you will climb the tower some other time. I will be alright.” Then, as though speaking from a dream he added, “These hills would be perfect for cutting smials. Perhaps hobbits will live here one day.”

He was gathered up then, cradled safely against the grey velvet of Elrond’s robe, and the elven lord drew his soft cloak about them both, to protect Frodo from the breeze as he climbed the low hill in Gildor’s footsteps.


	5. Sight Of The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in continuing this tale. My computer swallowed the entire document so I've had to start again.

The tower loomed tall and dark above them as they rounded it to enter from the shadowed west side. Its doorway was tall, even compared against Elrond’s lofty height; the pointed arch delicately carved with leaves and flowers, although age and weather had blunted the crisp edges of the mason's work.

It was even dimmer inside, morning sunlight only venturing a few feet beyond the entrance to illuminate the first half dozen risers of a staircase that curved away around a central newel. Granite steps were difficult to wear away and yet their softened edges and the gentle dip in the centre of each tread, was testimony to the thousands of pairs of feet that had climbed them over the centuries since their construction. Gildor kindled a torch, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and climbed ahead of them, the glow of the brand held aloft in his hand warming the bleached white of each precisely fitted stone in the walls.

"Not long, Frodo," murmured Elrond.

Frodo was curious, though he rested trustingly against Elrond's grey velvet clad chest, his pallid skin eerily cool to the touch. "Are there many stairs?"

Elrond's eyes darkened as the question brought old memories to life. "Two hundred from bottom to top.” He had counted them once, shortly after Celebrian’s departure.

They climbed steadily for several minutes, past many firmly closed doors, until a pale light began to filter down from a doorway ahead. Gildor snuffed out the torch in a bowl of sand set there for the purpose and Frodo's protector drew his cloak more closely about his charge.

"It will seem quite bright when we come back into the sunlight," Elrond warned as he rounded a corner and stepped out into the piercing light, turning to right to face the early morning sun. "There is the Shire, Frodo, and beyond that the Weather Hills and the Misty Mountains." He drew back the edge of his cloak slowly so that Frodo could see.

"Ah!" Frodo's breath caught. He squinted at first, forced to hide his face in the cloak once more for a moment while eyes, the colour of the sky above them focussed. But then he peered back out, gazing over the landscape with delight, shading his eyes with one hand. "My home looks so small from here; such a great distance."

Before them Eriador was spread in the sun like some huge quilt. Closest to them were the brown bracken covered hills of the Far Downs and beyond them, the White Downs. Then the lush farmland of his beloved Shire, tiny fields forming a multi-hued patchwork of green, stitched with dark hawthorn hedges. From this distance the damage done by Saruman was invisible to eyes that did not know the land. A ribbon of shimmering silver marked the Brandywine and beyond that was the dark smudge of the Old Forest. Whilst to elven eyes the Misty Mountains may indeed have been visible, Frodo could make out only a vague blue shadow on the horizon.

Turning back to his left, Elrond cradled Frodo in the crook of one arm as he pointed to where a river glinted, silver in the distance. "There is the river Lhun and, at its mouth, between those high hills, is Mithlond, that you call the Grey Havens." He took another step to the left. "And there is the Gulf of Lhun and the sea."

Frodo’s mouth opened on a soft gasp and he gazed out curiously, peeking from the folds of Elrond's cloak to follow his direction, eyes focussing only with some effort even though he sat in the shadow of Elrond’s broad shoulder. "The sea is so large," he whispered. “It did not seem so large in my dreams.”

Elrond's voice too, was little more than a breath, his grey eyes focussed on something even more distant. "A wide sea indeed that separates West from East."

To one side, Gildor busied himself with his task. All about the edge of the stone floor of the tower, hemmed within the balustrade, were small holes. Their guide set a short pole with a crescent at its top, in a hole at the west side and a taller pole of similar design at the east. Then Gildor unfastened the canvas bag he had carried so carefully and removed two large discs of polished silver that he set within the crescents. The shorter he angled to catch the morning sun, then he stood at the taller and began to swing it to catch the reflected sunlight of the first.

Knowing what was to come, Elrond drew his cloak across Frodo's curious eyes once more as he saw Gildor tilt the disc. There was a bright flash of light, followed by two more and then Gildor paused. After a few moments there was an answering flash from Mithlond.

Elrond's face sought Frodo's; a pale moon within the midnight shadow of his cloak. "They know we are coming. Two more days and we will be boarding, Frodo."

"So long as that?" Frodo sounded almost disappointed. A soft, shuddering sigh came from beneath the cloak, and the small bundle sank back against Elrond. "I'm so tired, very, very tired." His right hand fumbled fretfully for the Evenstar on its chain about his neck.

The fatigue was duly noted and Elrond settled him more comfortably. "We will go down now." With a nod to Gildor, now packing away the mirrors, Elrond began the descent. It was darker, without the light of Gildor's torch, but elven eyesight could easily find the steps. Two days was a long time indeed, for one so frail as this, and beyond that was the sea voyage. Elrond hoped that his own skill and both of his daughter's gifts would aid Frodo, but the pale features within the protection of his cloak made success seem more unlikely with each passing hour.

"Thank you." Frodo's voice was faint, a little hoarse, as he was carried back into the stairwell, fingers at last managing to clasp the chain and close over the stone, white-knuckled. He began to whisper, as if afraid of anyone hearing. "I'm terribly thirsty."

"Once we reach our camp you can have a little more of the broth." Elrond looked down into the large eyes, seeing only uncertainty, and paused. Carefully, he sat on the steps, settling Frodo in his lap. "I have been helping you for two days, as we rode. Let me try once more."

Grey eyes grew hooded, focussed beyond Frodo's features. Reaching down into the large tapestry of his own soul, Elrond teased out some of the strands. From a young elf, abandoned by both parents he drew out a determination to continue. From a husband, watching his wife board a white ship he drew hope and from a father, dandling a tiny baby girl upon his knee he pulled the love of life. These he wove to form a strong but gossamer thin thread which he used to stitch the tattered web of Frodo's fae, drawing together some of the wider rents. Perhaps it would hold for a little while.

Before his inner eye he watched Frodo’s fae. The threads held fast, but only just. And yet it was enough: Frodo's features seemed to regain the slightest hint of pink at the cheekbones, and the fingers clasping the Evenstar loosened slightly.

"If it's all right, I'd rather have a drink of water," confessed the thin voice. "Just water."

Rising and cradling Frodo within the warm security of his arms, Elrond continued down the winding staircase. "You shall have it."

Outside the air was clear, and a little cool despite the bright sun. Sam met them at the bottom of the hill and it was the work of only minutes for elf and hobbit to have Frodo wrapped in several blankets and supported against his friend's chest once more. Elrond touched a cup to Frodo's lips and trickled a little water into his mouth.

The relief evident on Frodo's features lasted only a second. He began to cough, choking as the effort at swallowing failed. Strong hands eased him forward, rubbing his back until the fit passed, leaving Frodo breathless, blue eyes bright with tears. "So thirsty," he whispered softly. "And yet I can't."

"Will you let me try another way? Just a few drops at a time, like the medicine," the elven healer asked.

There was a tiny nod. Frodo shivered in Elrond's arms, though already he felt warm to the touch again, the slight fever that had intermittently troubled him returning. "All r-right."

He was returned to the comfort of Sam's waiting arms and Elrond tucked the blankets more closely about him. Dampening a piece of cloth with water from a canteen, he folded it and laid it across Frodo's brow. Touching a finger to the hobbit's chin, Elrond gently prized open pale lips and administered a few drops of cool water. Sam watched anxiously, his face lined with worry, but slowly Frodo responded managing to swallow weakly, taking the water greedily.  
Relieved, Elrond settled himself more comfortably at Frodo's side and filled the dropper again. 

Beyond them the camp was settling down to rest. Bilbo was led away from the fire to the shade of another tree, where he was settled in blankets and fell asleep at once. One elf stood guard and, at the fire, two more sat singing softly while they waited for stones to heat. Gildor was speaking quietly with the Lady Galadriel as he handed over the palantir in its new leather bag.

Frodo seemed content, and swallowed again. Sam watched, brown eyes sad, though he continued to support Frodo firmly, keeping the fragile body comfortably propped against his sturdy one. Yet suddenly Frodo's eyes focused, not on Sam or Elrond but some point similarly close, and he blinked, shaking his head.

"No. Please. Not yet."

"What is it, Frodo?" Elrond lowered the dropper, laying a hand on his charge's cheek to establish the course of the fever. If Frodo heard Elrond's query, he did not respond, merely sinking back. The fever was definite, but not the height one would expect for it to be the cause of such confusion.

"Just . . .just a little longer." Frodo's voice was desperate, pleading, exhausted, and at once Sam's eyes took on a pained, anxious expression of recognition.  
"Samwise?" Elrond's face grew concerned, which was enough to worry Sam in itself. "Do you know what he sees?"

Frodo's faint voice continued. "Please. Just a little longer, Smeagol. Master has to rest a little longer. Then I'll be ready to go on."

"He thinks he's back there." Sam's expression was sad, dark with recognition and sorrow. "In . . .well, I reckon around close to when we were in Ithilien, while that Gollum creature was playin' guide for us. Sometimes he'd try to push on too soon."

The healer had seen this confusion in mortal and elf before and knew it for a bad sign. A firm but gentle hand turned Frodo's face. Grey eyes met blue and the elf lord's voice seemed to float into Frodo’s mind. "You do not have to move on, Frodo. You can stay here. Stay with us."

This reassurance seemed to calm the Ringbearer: sighing softly, he settled back into Sam's arms, secure against the familiar shoulder. "Oh. Then wake m-me in two hours' time. I should be rested by then." The dark lashes fluttered shut.

"He's not too good, is he, sir?" 

Elrond looked across at Sam's open and honest face. "No, Samwise. He is not 'good'" he replied, sadly.

Sam dropped his chin to rest upon his friend's burnt chestnut curls. "You should have stayed at home, Frodo. Me and Rosie would have looked after you; tucked you into a soft feather bed and kept you warm and comfy." He raised his eyes to meet Lord Elrond's, a part of him surprised that he could now do so. When he first met the mighty elf he had been unable even to look at his face, let alone lock stares with those ageless and age-filled eyes. "Can you bring him safe to the Havens? Can you get him across the Sea?"

Elrond made no attempt to break Sam's gaze. "I believe I can bring him safely to the Grey Havens and I will do all that I can to bring him to the Undy . . . to the West."

"And will he find healin' in the West?"

"Beyond the boat I cannot say, for his healing will no longer be in my hands."

Sam lowered his eyes and his chin quivered as silent tears slid down his cheeks to anoint his master's curls. "Will there be a soft bed for him on the boat? And feather pillows?"

"Yes, Samwise. And hot water bottles, warm broth and gentle music to lull him to sleep," replied Elrond softly, reaching out to brush a tear from the gardener's face.

"Thank you." Sam kissed the crown of Frodo's sleeping head. "He's fond of his feather beds."

Elrond rose in one fluid movement. "When you judge him to be sleeping deeply enough, lay him down and take some rest yourself. I will send warming stones to lay around him."

True to his word, Elrond returned in a little while with two other elves and some cloth wrapped stones. Fatigue had begun to overtake Sam and his cheek rested upon Frodo's head. At Elrond's gentle touch on his shoulder he jumped.

"I am sorry, Samwise. I did not intend to startle you. You should sleep, for we have a long road still ahead of us and then you will have to make your return journey to the Shire."

Sam rubbed his eyes. "It's alright, Master Elrond, sir. I'm used to lookin’ out for him."

Elrond smiled. "I have no doubt that you are and your loyalty is laudable, but we would like to help too. Please allow us this honour. I will watch over Frodo for you."

Sam considered for a moment. Frodo seemed to be sleeping peacefully at last and Lord Elrond and his kin had been very attentive so far. "Thank you, sir. I think I will take a little nap, if you'd be willing to stay with him."

Much to the gardener's embarrassment, Elrond draped a blanket about Sam's shoulders. "Why not lie down here, at his side. Then you will hear if he awakens."

Suddenly feeling very sleepy Sam took his advice, falling into a deep slumber as soon as he did.


	6. The Gates Of Mithlond

As before, Elrond carried a drowsing Frodo for the two-day journey to the Grey Havens, rousing him only long enough to administer medicines or nourishment, and continuing to strengthen the failing body with his own fae; although now he was supported in this task by his kin.

At length they came to Mithlond and the elven lord sent a gentle string of waking song into Frodo's mind. Frodo sighed, his body stretching comfortably with returning consciousness. Dark fringed eyelids fluttered and then opened. Elrond waited, watching Frodo piecing together where he was and why. With gathering awareness came sadness and the weary cornflower blue eyes sought out Elrond's face.

"How long have I lost this time?" It seemed to Frodo that as his life grew shorter more of it was taken from him in sleep. It flowed away like sand in an hourglass and he was powerless to stop it.

Elrond unhooked a small flask from his saddle pommel and put it to Frodo's lips. The hobbit accepted the cool liquid gratefully, mildly pleased to find that he was able to swallow the Miruvor without assistance this time. 

The elf replied succinctly. "Two days. We are coming to the gates of the Grey Havens and I thought that you may wish to see them." Hooking the strap of the flask over his saddle pommel once more, he raised Frodo slowly, pausing when the already pale face blanched. He was about to think better of it and lower him again when Frodo's fist clenched in his sleeve.

"No. Please. I want to see. I can do this." He struggled ineffectually to rise and Elrond had to help him for fear that he would exhaust himself in the trying. Finally Frodo sat, still within the shadow of the elf's warm grey cloak and leaning weakly against Elrond's chest. What he saw, as far as he was concerned, justified the effort.

On his pony behind Elrond, Sam looked about in wonder as the folk of Imladris unfurled silken standards; deep sapphire blue with a tiny border of stars, the gossamer fabrics whispering as they were caught up by the sea breeze. The folk of Lothlorien carried no standard, merely falling into ranks behind their more northern kin, but the Lady Galadriel came forward to ride with the other Ringbearers. Gildor led Bilbo's pony, with its nodding occupant, to ride behind them with Sam.

Frodo squinted ahead, towards the dazzle of the tall silver clad gates, their surfaces etched with a device of ships and waves. They were set within a grey stone wall spanning a gap between two steep hillsides. At regular intervals standards snapped in the breeze atop slender poles, their fabric embroidered with pale, swan-prowed ships and he noted tall, bow wielding figures walking too and fro atop the wall, sharp elven eyes scanning the horizons. 

A cool breeze flowed towards them, carrying with it the cry of gulls and the smell of seaweed; leaving a salt taste in their mouths. A horn blew somewhere above them and the gates swung slowly inward to admit their party.

Before they could enter, however, a tall, grey clad figure rode towards them. Frodo blinked in confusion, thinking at first that this was a mortal man, but as he drew closer it became clear that he was elven, even though his hair was grey and his beard was longer than Gandalf's.

He sat upon a grey horse before the group, his eyes as sharp as stars on a winter’s eve. Frodo shrank back into the shadow of Elrond's cloak as he met those eyes but they did not linger long upon him, rising instead to find those of the Lord of Imladris, with questions in their depths. There seemed to be a silent exchange and Sam saw Elrond shake his head slightly as he drew Frodo closer to him.

Elrond and Galadriel bowed and it was the Lord of Imladris that spoke, his strong voice carrying clearly above the scream of the gulls, riding the thermals above them.  
"The Ringbearers seek entry to Mithlond to take ship to the West. Will Cirdan the Shipwright give them passage?

Cirdan bowed in return, his eyes drifting to the Lady of the Golden Wood. "I will indeed. And a welcome to all who have been exiled in this land, far from their home." The lady smiled and, with a sweep of his hand, Cirdan invited them through the wide gates. "All is now ready." And he led the way through the shining portal and into the town.

Mithlond was small, compared to the cities of men. It boasted no tall trees like Lothlorien nor rushing falls like Imladris, yet it had a feel just as ageless and yet ancient as those other elven outposts.

Its white stone buildings stepped in dizzy terraces down the seaward side of the steep hills. Doorways and windows boasted a wealth of delicate carving, the style and content echoing those of the Towers, and gardens bloomed on either side of the road they travelled. The air was filled with song that blended with the hiss of waves and soothed the hobbits, making it difficult to keep track of time and direction except that they always travelled downward. Then they rounded a corner and suddenly the harbour was before them and, sitting at the dock, a tall white ship, its prow shaped in the likeness of a huge swan.

Suddenly Sam cried out and Frodo looked to see what had startled him. Upon the quay, beside a great horse stood a figure robed all in white. As he turned and came towards them Frodo saw that Gandalf now wore openly on his hand the Third Ring, Narya the Great, and the stone upon it was red as fire. The ancient wizard slapped Sam on the shoulder and looked up at Frodo. But it was Galadriel who spoke first.

"And so now all the Ringbearers are assembled and the tale of the rings of power is ended."

Frodo's slightly breathless voice followed. "Gandalf. Will you be travelling with us?"

The wizard laid a warm, callused hand upon Frodo's cheek. "Indeed I will."

"Well, this will be a pleasant voyage," murmured Bilbo. "How nice to see you Gandalf. We will be able to talk of old times to while away the hours."

Looking behind Elrond, to where the white haired hobbit sat beaming, Gandalf chuckled as he patted a small bag at his belt. "And share a pipe of Old Toby?" If it were possible, Bilbo's smile would have widened.

Any hopes of riding back to the Shire in the company of the old wizard fled Sam's mind and his heart grew heavy, for it seemed to him that he was about to make a very bitter parting and the road home would be long indeed. True enough, Lord Elrond had said that he could have an escort but elves were not hobbits and Gandalf at least, he had come to know.

Elrond handed Frodo over to Gildor while he dismounted then took him back gently. All about them the rest of the party were dismounting and boarding the pale ship, their horses led away by Cirdan's people. Elrond settled Frodo upon a sun-warmed bench leaning against a stone wall.

"I will leave you alone to say goodbye to your friend." He turned and walked off a little way to speak with Cirdan, who was supervising the loading of Shadowfax, their baggage and some last minute provisions.

The sharp-eyed elf nodded to Elrond as he approached. "There is a storm on the way. I can smell it in the air," he advised, matter-of-factly. "If you do not leave on this tide you may have to wait several days for the sea to subside. As it is, your crew will be hard pressed to run before it."

Elrond scanned the horizon, unable to find any trace of the weather the shipwright predicted but willing to bow to his greater knowledge on these matters. This was not Imladris and he had been but a child when last he spent any significant time at the coast.

"We cannot wait. We must get Master Frodo from Middle-earth as soon as we may. He is failing and I do not know how long I can hold him."

"Perhaps it would be wiser not to try," Cirdan murmured.

"While there is hope of his healing I will try," Elrond replied, firmly.

Keen eyes, pale as silver, looked long at his companion. "And if he decides to let go, child? Will you hold him then, against his will?"

Elrond returned the gaze for a long moment and then turned suddenly at the clatter of pony's hooves on cobbles. Up rode Merry and Pippin in great haste. And amid his tears Pippin laughed at Frodo's surprised expression.

"You tried to give us the slip once before and failed, Frodo," he said as he jumped down. "This time you have nearly succeeded, but you have failed again. It was not Sam, though that gave you away this time, but Gandalf himself!"

"Yes," said Gandalf, "for it will be better to ride back three together than one alone.” He smiled knowingly at Sam before continuing. “Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of the fellowship of Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep for not all tears are an evil." With those final words, the wizard turned and boarded the waiting ship.

When Frodo did not stand Merry and Pippin reached down and hugged him and then left him alone with Sam. The gardener sat down next to his friend upon the warm stone bench, unsure what to say and uncertain whether he would be able to voice it around his tears, even if he was. A cold hand slipped hesitantly into his, where it lay on his knee and Sam wrapped warm fingers around it tightly.

"I am sorry that I could not stay and watch Elanor grow up into a lovely young maiden. I would have liked that. More than anything."

Sam gulped, tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. He could not bear to even look at Frodo. "If you get better will you come back to us?"

"I am not sure that I will be allowed to. But if you wish, later, you can follow."

Sam turned to look at his master at last, only to discover that his face too, shone with tears. "I'll be there, Mr Frodo. That's a promise."

"Oh, Sam." Frodo disentangled his hand, reaching out his arms weakly, and Sam gathered him to his sturdy chest. Both sat thus, sobbing, for some minutes until the sound of a throat being cleared brought them back to themselves.

"It is time to board, Master Frodo." Elrond stood a few steps away, his face filled with compassion and understanding. He had sat as they upon a time, upon that very bench.

Sam drew away, wiping his face on his sleeve and Frodo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Stepping forward, Elrond made to lift him but Frodo shrank away. "I will walk."

Both Sam and Elrond looked as though they would protest but one glance at Frodo's face stopped them. The hobbit who had gone on, when all hope was lost, and made it to Mount Doom, had returned for a little while. Elrond nodded and Sam helped his master rise, with a hand beneath his elbow. In the distance Elrond saw Merry and Pippin watching, their brows furrowed in concern as they saw Frodo's plight. Pippin would have rushed forward, but the wiser Merry held him back.

With infinite slowness, Frodo walked the few steps to the gangplank, leaning heavily upon Sam. Elrond slipped in front, taking both the Ringbearer's hands in his to lead him on to the ship, leaving Sam silent and still upon the dock. As he took his first step onto the deck however, Frodo's knees gave way and Elrond had to scoop him up in his arms once more.

Frodo's head turned, his eyes seeking out those of his friend. "Goodbye dear Sam. Be happy enough for both of us."

The gangplank was raised, the sails were drawn up, the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth.

As the harbour mouth faded in the distance, Frodo suddenly fished within the pockets of his coat and drew out the Lady's Starglass. With the last of his failing strength he held up the glass and it flashed forth once, then his hand dropped, the glass falling from nerveless fingers to roll upon the deck as he slumped, unconscious in Elrond's arms.

The delicate glass vial, which had come through so much danger, finally shattered upon the deck, the water spilling to soak away, leaving only a faint stain upon the wood.


	7. The Copper Highway

The bright orange disk of the evening sun had dipped beyond the distant horizon ahead of the ship some hours before and they no longer sailed upon its glittering copper highway. Ithil rose and made his majestic way across the blue velvet canopy of night, scattering stars in his wake. One star, Earendil, most beloved of all the elves, glowed brightest and its light was reflected in the eyes of the travelers gathered upon the deck.

The night was peaceful, but not silent, for to elven ears, a symphony was being woven. The flutter and crack of canvas sail was underscored by the steady creak of straining ropes and the soft groan of wood. A gentle breeze sighed through the rigging and the splash and hiss of the waves against the prow set a delicate rhythm to the opus. In and about this framework the elves wove their own melodies, sometimes in solo or duet and at others in chorus until the ancient wizard sitting in the bow was swept up in dreams of crystal-strewn beaches and many glad reunions.

Bilbo had bid their hosts' goodnight some time ago and was sleeping peacefully in his bunk. The Lady Galadriel was sitting with Frodo for the moment, having relieved Elrond some hours before, giving him instructions to go and eat. He had spent many hours with the little Ringbearer, supporting him with his strength and holding him to this world, but even elven strength fails eventually and he had bowed to the urgings of his wife's mother, knowing that he left Frodo in safe hands.

As he stole down the narrow passageway Elrond drew strength from the crystal sound of his companion's voices lifted in song and he smiled as Bilbo's snores rose in ragged counterpoint from a cabin to his left. But, from behind the door at the end of the hallway, there came no sound.

With ease born of many years tending sick rooms, and the lightness of foot that only an elf could have commanded, Elrond entered and crossed to Frodo's bedside. Even in the golden glow of the single candle, burning on the nightstand, the hobbit's face was pale. In an elf, the complexion would not be remarkable but in a hobbit it was worrying, for this was not the pale glow of elven grace but pallor born of great weariness and pain.

For a fleeting moment the healer's memory recalled the many mortal faces he had watched turn pale and still before him down the ages of his life, and a great sadness filled his heart. Yet, even with the damage inflicted by the Ring, Elrond could see a steady glimmer of light within the hobbit's soul. It faltered, like the guttering flame of the candle at his side, but it glowed faintly, still.

Galadriel rose from her seat at the bedside and motioned for Elrond to take her place. "I believe he is awakening. He seems to have steadied at last." Even as she spoke the dark eyebrows of their charge gathered and his eyelashes fluttered, small body stirring beneath the covers.

To Frodo it was like awakening from a nightmare of drowning to find himself washed up upon a peaceful, sun drenched beach. He was drained but the cessation of strife brought a relief in itself. He could feel a soft mattress beneath his aching body and feather pillows cradled his head. Light but warm blankets were tucked about him and he seemed to be rocking gently, as though lulled in a cradle . . . the sensation supported by the sound of beautiful voices raised in song somewhere nearby. Gradually, he became aware of other voices, familiar and closer, and tried to open his eyes.

Galadriel slipped from the cabin as Elrond seated himself and watched Frodo's blue eyes drift slowly open. The hobbit groaned when he saw the strange surroundings. "How long?"

"Two days."

Frodo struggled to sit up and, gathering extra cushions, Elrond added their bulk to the pillows already upon the bed and eased Frodo back into their soft support.  
The healer leaned back to assess his patient. The thick, chestnut curls were damp with perspiration and one small maimed hand still clutched inadequately at Arwen's gem on its silver chain about his neck. Elrond had not failed to notice the way Frodo favoured his left shoulder as he tried to rise and the blue eyes were bright with fever. A fine sheen of perspiration showed at his neck and brow and yet, when Elrond helped him sit, he had noticed a chill to Frodo's skin, particularly in the left hand.

All these things the healer registered almost within the blink of an eye but, in case there was ought he had missed, he asked, "Does the old wound trouble you? I can see that you are in some discomfort." He touched fingers to the hobbit's forehead and wrist, his initial assessment confirmed when he found a pulse too rapid and uneven. 

Frodo relaxed a little at the familiar feather touch and looked up at the elf trustingly, but the eyes that met Elrond's were changed. Even after Weathertop there had been some return to the merry hobbit that had lived in the Shire but his subsequent journey had changed their sunny depths. To Elrond it seemed that, although still clear blue and vividly expressive, they were now sorrowful and haunted.

"Actually, I feel much better than I was." He tried to move and grimaced. "But yes, my shoulder does hurt a little." He closed his eyes, the simple act of talking drawing more energy than it should. 

The care given by Elrond and Galadriel, added to the rest in a proper bed, had worked a miracle and Frodo seemed a little recovered but he would never be fully healed, unless he were brought safely to the Undying Lands. For the moment, the task of ensuring that he reached those shores, still fell to Elrond. He would have to support the Ringbearer as best he could and, for the first time in many centuries, the elven lord did not feel equal to the task. "Will you let me see the shoulder?"

Frodo nodded weakly and opened his eyes, releasing his grip on the covers and allowing Elrond access to the affected area. "It is only a tiny scar now, of course. I would not have thought it would still hurt so, but then I found it did…sometimes. It grows worse at this time of the year."

With the tenderest of care, Elrond unfastened the pearl buttons of Frodo's nightshirt and folded back soft fabric to expose the scar. The mark was indeed small and white, the original knife scar overlaid with more, made by the healer when the young hobbit was brought to him from Weathertop (was it such a short time ago?). The shard of the Morgul blade had been difficult to locate and Elrond had been glad that Frodo remained unconscious throughout that lengthy surgery.

Frodo had reacted violently at Elrond's first touch that night, his body arching off the bed in agony. Brushing the scar now, with tentative fingers, the healer watched for a similar reaction. A soft cry escaped his lips, although he did look up at Elrond, apologetically, and then seemed to relax a little. "Forgive me. It hurt so at first. Though it does feel a little better now." Indeed, after the initial pain he found Elrond's touch soothing, the cool fingers seeming to bring their own healing, just as Glorfindel’s had once upon a time.

Having been given permission, Elrond laid his fingers a little more firmly upon the fine network of scars. He closed his eyes but his strength was still at a low ebb so he lifted his head to offer a silent prayer to Elbereth for help. Suddenly, upon the deck above them the music swelled. With a thrill of joy Elrond sent a silent "thank you" to his companions and once more drew upon the offered strength, weaving it with his own healing song and feeding it to the small frame beneath his hand.

Slowly Frodo relaxed further, the infusion of strength and reassurance soothing his troubled spirit and easing the intense pain running through his body. Gradually he began to breathe more easily, the shivering easing a little. It remained clear, however, that this would only serve as an assuagement to help him bear the illness until they reached the farther shore. The song faded and Elrond was alone within himself once more, but at least when he opened his grey eyes they were met by the sight of a less fragile Ringbearer.  
Ringbearer…

It was strange that, although the Ring was gone, Frodo was still the Ringbearer in Elrond's mind. Perhaps it was because Frodo still bore the marks of it upon his body and spirit.  
Smiling, the elf arose. "Let me see if I can make you a little more comfortable."

Opening his herbal and withdrawing a small vial he poured a few drops into a basin of water, wrung out a cloth and, collecting a towel, returned to the bed. The scent of lavender hung on the air, blending with the salt tang from the open porthole, and Frodo inhaled deeply, coughing slightly. Elrond remembered that lavender had been something that had soothed the hobbit in the days he had been recovering in Rivendell and Frodo had confided later that the perfume had been a favourite of his mothers.

Drawing aside the nightshirt, Elrond began to lave the small chest and neck, wiping away sticky perspiration. As he worked, the elf's eyes lit upon the jewel at Frodo's neck and his mind returned to the face of she who had worn it last . . . his little girl, Arwen . . . now a grown lady who had chosen a life of her own; a life far from her kin. A knife sliced through his heart as Elrond finally accepted that he would never see that gentle face again.

His fingers brushed the gem but he could sense no memory of her in its crystal heart, now that they were far beyond the confines of Middle-earth, where it had been wrought. Elrond had only memories of a laughing child, kicking up leaves in an autumn wood, a beautiful maiden in wedding finery, love shining bright in her eyes, and a delicate portrait in his luggage. All his power and might had not been able to prevent her choice or the consequences of it. Now that power and might had gone and so had Arwen. But at least Frodo now travelled to the West in her stead. Elrond hoped that her most precious gift had not been used too late.

Frodo let out a soft, rather contented sigh as Elrond worked. Slowly, he began to uncurl, becoming more comfortable as the soothing lavender-scented water helped to ease his chills. Yet not all the effects of wearing the One Ring were gone and the small Ringbearer was alert to more than his own pain. Feeling Elrond hesitate slightly, as his hand encountered Arwen's gem, Frodo's eyes misted. He spoke, his voice soft and compassionate. "You miss her, don't you? I wish it had been some other way. She was so kind to me."

"She has chosen her path…as my brother did before her. What father would not want to see his child sharing a love as deep as that between Arwen and Aragorn?" He moved to dry Frodo's chest and went on to bathe hands and face. "And yet, never to see her again, in all the long ages of the world…that could break a father's heart." There was a slight huskiness to the normally clear and confident voice. He dried Frodo's hands and, clearing his throat, bent to fasten the buttons on the soft nightshirt. 

The Little One nodded. "Yes. I know you want her to be happy, but who could not wish that it were not such a choice? I wish that they could have joined us: that some day they might come to the Havens and sail in the last ship, with stories of their children and their children's children." He smiled, softly. "You would have to embrace them for me, for I doubt that I should live long enough to see that day, but I do wish it.” 

Elrond lifted his face to the porthole where, set in the deep blue velvet of the night sky, rode his father’s star, Earendil. A single tear escaped and slid down his timeless face and, within the grey depths of Elrond's eyes were reflected all the years and pains of his long life. "Thank you. It is a lovely wish. But it is destined to remain only that." Brushing away the tear and swallowing, he took a deep breath and was suddenly the elven lord once more.


	8. Storm Clouds

"Well, Frodo. Do you think you could manage a little warm milk?"

Frodo nodded, managing the tiniest of smiles. "Yes. Thank you. I think so." His colour seemed a little improved, although he was still too pale.

Elrond left for a few moments, returning with a tray. On it was set a jug, from which steam rose lazily, a large cup and a hobbit sized one and a small vial of clear liquid. The healer set it down on the nightstand and filled the cups with warm milk, adding five drops from the vial to the smallest cup. Handing this to the Ringbearer, Elrond pulled up a chair and took a sip from his own cup.

Frodo allowed himself another small smile, taking the cup carefully and wrapping his fingers around the warmth. Gratefully, he sipped, rather pleased that for the first time in days he had the strength to hold it unaided. Frodo's voice grew wistful. "Sam and Rosie…. I shall miss them so. They took care of me but they could not understand about the Ring."

The elf tilted his head to listen to the music, drifting down from the deck above them, when one female voice rose strong and clear above the rest for a moment. "My wife's mother is a very wise lady. She once told me that to be the bearer of a ring of power is to be alone." He glanced down at the large sapphire ring on his finger and then across at Frodo. "Only someone who has felt the seductive power that such a ring provides can begin to understand how lonely it is to bear and, even then, I can only imagine the depth of torment that you suffered." Compassionate grey eyes looked deep into troubled blue ones. "I hope that you find the healing that you seek, Frodo." He did not voice the fear that they both felt . . . that it was still possible that he would not have strength to reach the West.

Frodo nodded, sombrely, sipping a little more. "I hope so too." Even now the sedative was beginning to work, gently allowing him to express fears held tight within himself for many months. "What if this journey is in vain? What if . . ." His voice quavered. "What if, because I claimed the Ring at the end, because I lost the battle. What if there is no healing for me?" His blue eyes were bright again, but this time with tears, welling afresh but as yet unshed.

Silent for a moment, Elrond continued sipping his own milk and considered carefully what he should say next. When he spoke his voice was soft. "Yours was but a part of the tale of the Ring, Frodo. Perhaps the task of its destruction was never intended to be yours. You were the Ringbearer, but it was Gollum who was the Ringdestroyer and, perhaps it was always intended to be thus. Gandalf tells me that he hinted as much to you, once." He shook his head and smiled at the small figure, lost among the pillows. "Do not be so hard on yourself."

Frodo looked up at him, still close to tears. At last, trembling, he reached shyly for Elrond's hand. "The elves have lost so much too. It makes me sad to think that one day there will be none of your people in Middle-earth. You brought such grace and beauty to the world."

Elrond shook his head, his grey eyes shuttered to hide any emotion. "We brought a great deal of pain and anger, too. You give my people too much credit. Yet perhaps it was all a part of the great song. Every high note must stand against a low or there will be no melody."

Frodo smiled, his gaze distant once more. "I remember Bilbo taking me to see my first elves. They were on their way to the Havens." He blinked his eyes back to the present. "I never thought that we would be travelling that way too, one day." He grimaced as he neared the bottom of the cup of milk and encountered a stronger mouthful of the sedative. "I was looking forward to being with Bilbo, once more. When I was younger he always seemed to know what I was feeling. When we came back to Rivendell afterwards I tried to talk to him about the journey. I tried to tell him what I had been through but he did not seem to understand." He swallowed a sob. "He did not seem to even want to know."

"It is the gift of Illuvatar to your people, Frodo; to age and pass from this world. Bilbo has seen much and it is now his time to fade. He may find some respite in the Undying Lands but he will succumb to the inevitable in due time. It is the way his soul was sung."

This time a sob did escape the Ringbearer's lips. "I had hoped that he would be with me in Eldamar. I so needed him to be there. I am not sure that I can be alone." He tried to take another sip but his hands shook.

Elrond steadied his grip and encouraged him to finish the milk, taking the cup from his grasp when it was drained. "Your healing is not dependent upon Bilbo, nor will you ever be alone. There are many on this ship who care for and will not abandon you." The elf laid a hand upon Frodo's cheek, stroking away a tear from his face with a thumb. "You will never be forsaken."

Frodo would not be consoled, however, and his tears increased, the sedative loosening the last of his restraints. Elrond's heart grieved for him. He was so alone, so hurt and too young to have endured such pain. The healer leaned forward, slipping an arm behind the shuddering form and drawing Frodo to rest against him, holding him close, as he would a child waking from nightmares. "Sshhhhhhh…. Little One." He stroked the damp curls of Frodo's head, where it rested against his chest. Slowly the sobbing eased and Frodo's breathing improving, eased by the touch of gentle warm hands.

Waiting patiently for the tears to subside and hoping that the sedative would soon complete its work, Elrond rubbed his hand in soothing circles on the trembling back. Beneath the nightshirt, he knew, were the ragged white scars of the marks of a whip, and he sighed. Was there one part of the tiny creature that did not bear the marks of the terrible journey he had endured?

Almost without realising that he had opened his mouth, Elrond began to sing…an ancient song of starlight and peace, sunlight on flower strewn meadows…a song he remembered Celebrian singing to their children when they were no larger than the being wrapped in his arms this night. It had been many years since he had raised his voice in song and, about the ship, others stilled. And as if Celebrian's fea were already waiting eagerly to welcome her husband, after such a long separation, the song seemed to enchant, what power Elrond had lost with the fading of Vilya minor in comparison to the power his hands still held, for the gentle rubbing calmed the fragile hobbit. Slowly, the sobs eased, beginning to fade as the medicine, both that in the milk and that in Elrond's voice, soothed Frodo to sleep.

Yet, sleep did not come all at once, and Frodo merely drowsed at first…still sufficiently awake to rest gratefully in the elven-lord's arms. And as sleep overtook Frodo, Elrond sensed something else…a hint of another song …. so tiny and delicate that it must have been Frodo's own. Yet it was mingled with two others, familiar to Elrond. The first, woodsy and warm with evergreen and Athelas…the second, soft and sweet as honey and music, the gloaming twilight blended into liquid darkness sprinkled with stars. "Wear this in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar, with whom your life has been woven…"

And indeed, the injured hand clutched the white gem, even in slumber, as Frodo finally rested in Elrond's arms.

0o0

Frodo cried out as he felt himself falling, his eyes flying open in alarm even though strong hands pressed him to the bunk. He looked up, seeking out a familiar face and finding Elrond. For a moment he thought that his dizziness had returned with a vengeance for everything seemed to be in motion and he clutched the edge of the bunk with one hand and sought out Elrond's wrist, where it secured his shoulder, with the other.

"What is happening?" he cried.

Elrond grimaced. "The storm that we hoped to outrun has overtaken us. Do not worry, Frodo. This ship will weather it, although things may be a little uncomfortable for a while."

Uncomfortable! Frodo swallowed against rising nausea. That had to be one of Elrond's famous understatements. Aragorn had once confided in him that had the world suddenly come to an end he believed that his foster father would have described it simply as an untimely event. Frodo scrambled to sit up as he lost the battle with his stomach and, noting his distress, Elrond helped, slipping a bowl beneath his charge's chin as he was violently sick. When the fit had passed he gave him water to rinse and settled Frodo back on his pillows, wiping the pale face with a cool damp cloth.

From his herbal the healer removed two bottles measuring, with some difficulty in the swaying ship, a spoonful from each into a cup and adding a little water. He lifted Frodo's sweat damp head and put the rim to his lips but Frodo pulled away. "No, please. I will be sick again."

Elrond still held the cup, however. "It is something to settle your stomach and help you sleep. It would be better if you slept through the storm."

But Frodo could not be persuaded and when the cup was touched to his lips he clenched his mouth shut. Elrond lowered him back into the support of his pillows and put the sedative aside, his face filled with questions. Frodo swallowed and tried to explain. "No more sedatives please. I feel I have so little time. I don't want to lose any more."

"Will you take something for your stomach, then?" Elrond asked.

Frodo's answer was forestalled by a particularly violent wave that made the ship dip down and then rise as steeply up, it's prow landing with a loud thump as it settled in the water again at the top. Frodo paled again and Elrond supported him, as he was sick once more. When it was over the healer prepared another cup and offered it.

"This is just something to ease your stomach. No sedative, I promise. Although I still believe that you would conserve your strength better if you slept."

Frodo made to roll his head in denial but thought better of it when the movement redoubled the feeling of nausea. "No sedative."

A gentle hand cupped his head and the drink was offered. "No sedative. You have my promise."

Frodo's pale lips parted and allowed his carer to pour a little of the mint flavoured concoction into his mouth. He swallowed tentatively, but accepted the second mouthful more readily when he felt the first begin to act immediately as it landed in his roiling stomach. He sighed in relief when Elrond returned him to the cradle of his pillows but had to clutch the side of the bunk as the boat breached once more, like some giant white whale.

"How long will this go on?" Frodo was perspiring and yet shivering at the same time, unable to decide whether he wanted to pull the covers closer or push them away. Elrond continued to try and hold him in the bunk. "The sailor's say it will blow itself out in about ten hours more. You really should let me administer a sedative."

"No." Frodo's brows suddenly drew together in concern. "Bilbo. He will be ill too."

Elrond shook his head. "I gave him a sedative and something to ease his stomach an hour ago. The Lady Galadriel watches over his sleep."

"Thank you. You are all so kind."

"It is no less than you deserve," the healer replied, refreshing the cool compress on Frodo's brow. He took an extra blanket, folding it into a strip, laying it across the bunk at Frodo's hips and tucking it firmly under the mattress at both sides.

And thus they rode the storm, listening to the wind howl in the almost empty rigging and feeling the pounding lurch as the ship breached, their strained faces caught in the flickering glow of the swaying lantern hanging from the cabin ceiling. Towards dawn the storm began to abate and Frodo sank into exhausted slumber, the dark circles about his eyes testimony to the energy spent in a body that had little enough to spare to begin with. The elven healer remained faithfully at his side until relieved by Gandalf, the wizard threatening to feed him a dose of his own sedative if he did not retire to his bunk.


	9. Letting Go

Elrond had taken up his station at Frodo's bunk once more. As soon as he awoke he had returned to the cabin, now refusing all offers to relieve him of his vigil. It was clear that a crisis was near and he would let no one else take the responsibility of seeing Frodo through it to whatever lay upon the other side. Leaning forward, he blotted the pale features with a damp cloth as he sensed the first stirrings of consciousness returning.

Gandalf had left only half an hour ago, the ancient wizard a silent and welcome support after the befuddled and drowsing Bilbo. Frodo's uncle had insisted on sitting vigil for some hours, aware at last that something was very wrong with his heir, but still having difficulty understanding how the situation had occurred. He seemed convinced that Elrond would be able to simply pull out some magical vial of liquid and make it all come right. The healer sighed, wishing it were so.

The golden rays of a late afternoon sun strayed through the small porthole, giving Frodo's face a false warmth of colour and, noting the dark brows draw together in a frown, Elrond moved his chair so that his shadow fell across his charge's face. The frown faded, although the elf could see the beginnings of permanent lines on the young hobbit's face. He stroked his fingers across the faint creases on the pale brow. The lines on mortal faces had always fascinated, but it saddened him to touch the evidence of so much pain in so few years of life and he hid the disturbing sight away beneath a folded compress.

Yet even this gentle, feather-light touch did not escape the tiny hobbit's attention: waking, he stirred weakly, breath quickening as the heavy eyelashes fluttered against waxen cheekbones. Slowly, blue eyes opened, seeking some familiar point of reference as Frodo blinked uncertainly, confusion in his gaze.

"Good evening, Frodo. How are you feeling now?" Even as he asked the question, Elrond was not hopeful of the answer. Would he manage to help Frodo to hold fast to life until they reached the virtue of the Undying Land? Even the name of that land taunted Elrond now.

"Thirsty. . .so thirsty." Answering half as one in sleep, or in some daze, Frodo shifted restlessly, attempting to sit up, the effort causing him to blanch as he struggled to succeed. There was an odd desperation to his attempt, his brow furrowing back into a slight frown as the compress slipped. Firm but gentle hands caught both hobbit and compress although the healer made no attempt to force Frodo back into his pillows.

"What is it? I can give you something to drink Little One, but you should rest."

"I-I think that place in the rocks, a little way b-back. We c-could refill the b-bottles again." Frodo's back was wet with perspiration, his clothing soaked through with icy sweat and his speech faded to an intent murmur, blue eyes darkening as he struggled against Elrond's gentle touch. "Come on. I'm all right, really. I - I just n-need some more water and. . .and a few minutes' rest."

"We have water, Frodo. Here..." Elrond touched a cup to the hobbit's lips, trying to soothe him until the confusion faded. It was a symptom with which he was all too familiar in those reaching the last fading chorus of their song. "Rest for a little while longer. You need not hurry."

The water had an immediate effect: Frodo drank as one parched, putting both hands around the cup Elrond held, sipping greedily at the cool liquid. Within his breast, the elf's heart ached as he watched the delicate and sparkling vision that was Frodo Baggins, nephew to Bilbo, fading like a fine silken tapestry hung too long in the strong sun.

"We'll need to fill up again before we go on. I-I was shown maps in Rivendell but I don't know. . . ." 

"Do not be concerned about the water, Frodo. We have plenty. Sip more slowly. There is time enough." The words were murmured softly, Elrond's voice warm and compassionate. "Your task is completed and you can rest here. You are safe."

The voice finally took effect, and Frodo suddenly folded against his caregiver, sinking against the elven lord and slowing his sips a little. After a moment, the blue eyes gazed back up at Elrond's ageless features, more weary than bemused. "That's right, isn't it? I-I don't know what I thought." He continued to drink steadily, draining the cup in parched mouthfuls.

"You were dreaming, perhaps," Elrond soothed. He settled upon the edge of the bunk, supporting Frodo against him as he set the empty cup aside and reached for a small alabaster bottle. 

Groaning, Frodo started to shake his head, but stopped the motion at once, thinking better of it as his world began to spin. "No. Please, no more medicine. Can't I have a little more to drink? I'd rather have something to drink."

"The medicine is only to strengthen you. It is not a sedative. Please take it." The elven healer found it more difficult than he had ever known to keep concern from tingeing his voice. "The Lady Galadriel has left a berry cordial for you if you would like some afterwards to cover the taste."

"No sedative?" Frodo's weakening resolve evidenced itself in his voice, and he eyed his caregiver less warily now, the offer seeming to calm him a little. "I'd like that cordial, please. I'd take it for that, so long as . . .no sedative. I don't want to lose any more hours than I must"

Frodo had made his decision, then. Golden beams of sunlight scrambled obliquely over the rim of the porthole, dipping and rising on the wall above Frodo's bunk, moving higher with each minute that passed. They gave no warmth to the Ringbearer's features now though, and Elrond touched the tiny bottle to lips too pale. "No sedative, Frodo. And after the cordial I will carry you up on deck to watch the sunset if you wish. This will be special evening for with the dawn we reach our destination."

"That sounds wonderful. I should like that, if you don't mind." Prompt compliance: Frodo sipped weakly, swallowing the medicine with a slight grimace, wincing a little as the swallowing motion seeming to weaken at the last moment. 

A large but gentle hand rubbed his back and Elrond waited for Frodo to recover before offering the cup of golden liquid. "Ready?" he asked. "It is a cordial made from berries that grow only in the woods of Lothlorien."

A tiny nod and Frodo sipped slowly, his throat moving weakly as he drank, smiling a little at the taste. "This is what Haldir brought from her that first night, when I was so tired and we were all still grieving for Gandalf . She must have remembered I liked it."

Elrond's hand moved from Frodo's back so that he was supported now by the elf's arm and soft fingers rested against the perspiration slicked throat, testing the life flow. Elrond's smile mirrored Frodo's, his voice growing wistful. "It was Celebrian's favourite too. Whenever anyone travelled to Lothlorien from Imladris she would extract a promise from them not to return lest they bring a bottle of cordial."

"I would like to meet your lady." Frodo's voice was faint, though he smiled a little, taking careful sips with Elrond's assistance. "She sounds very special. Everyone says that we may enjoy meeting."

"I think she would understand your trials, for she too was wounded beyond help in Middle Earth and came West to find healing. I have always hoped that she found it although no word comes from the West to Middle Earth so I have only that hope. But I believe I would know if she did not."

"I am sure you would feel it." The Frodo swallowed the last mouthful, though not without difficulty, and settled against his caregiver's arm, weakly. He shivered, yet continued to sweat; a fresh sheen of icy perspiration glimmering on his features. "Half of me wants to push the covers off and half to pull them up," he managed at last, forcing a tremulous laugh.

"You are quite weak . . . the storm. Perhaps if I take you for that fresh air it will make you feel a little better." Putting down the empty cup, the healer pushed back damp curls from Frodo's brow as he supported him easily with his other arm. It was fortunate that the little hobbit did not look up at that moment for ancient eyes were filled with sadness as the healer noted one more unravelling thread in the tapestry of Frodo's life.

"Thank you. Yes. I was afraid of waking up to more of that." Frodo's voice grew faint, and he shuddered. "I don't think I could bear being so sick again just now."

"The seas will remain calm here for we are coming within the influence of the Blessed Realm. There will be no more storms and already the swell has diminished."

Snuggling against Elrond's arm, the Ringbearer sighed, looking even smaller. Suddenly he blinked, eyebrows shifting slightly as he looked up at Elrond curiously. "Please, do you think it might be possible for me to have a drop of apple juice? Not now, but when we go up? While we watch the last sunset? When I was in Rivendell Bilbo and I used to have that every evening, as we did at home . . .warmed apple juice with cinnamon . . .or mulled cider."

"Warmed apple juice with cinnamon? I am sure I can arrange that," Elrond smiled down at him, hiding his grief behind grey eyes as warm as a summer shower. He began to wrap Frodo snuggly in extra blankets. 

Frodo looked up. "Bilbo will be all right now, won't he? He'll have some peace I mean, and die a very free, very old hobbit?"

"He will, indeed. He will be cared for as he was in Rivendell and all remaining shadow of the Ring will be washed away, I promise you." 

"Good."

"Would you like me send word for him to join us on deck?"

"Yes . . .yes, please. I would like that very much." Frodo smiled, relief flooding the vivid blue eyes. "That will be nice. I should like to see him again just now."

Elrond noted that Frodo’s hands and feet seemed chilled, cold to the touch, though he no longer shivered, and recognised one more unravelling strand. A low female voice dropped into his mind. "It is done, child."

There were few that could call Elrond, "child" and he found it somewhat comforting that Galadriel was journeying with them even as something within him laughed at the very thought of finding Galadriel's presence comfortable. As he used his touch to push a little of his own strength into the flesh, Elrond could already feel the edges of the gauzy fabric of Frodo's fea beginning to fray. And a slow rent appeared, steadily growing like old silk stretched too tightly.

Frodo’s voice was distant as Elrond enfolded him in another blanket, his voice half-distracted. "What are they like . . .the Undying Lands?"

The lowering sun fell warm on Elrond's back as he lifted Frodo in strong arms, one part of his mind desperately trying to slow the tearing of his charge’s delicate fae while another part knew that the task was hopeless now. And all the while his voice remained calm and clear. "Think of an old portrait, its varnish darkened with age, the colours muddied. That is Middle earth. But in the Undying Lands there is no veil of varnish. Colours are brighter. The air is as clear as the breezes that blow across the gorse covered heath and it smells as pure as the most carefully distilled oils. The land is as pristine as it was at the moment that Illuvatar sang it into being."

"Ah . . ." The blue eyes closed, Frodo resting as he listened. "It sounds wonderful. I cannot think of a more beautiful place to rest. I do wish I could see it."

There were a few moments of quiet, save for his quick little breaths, slightly ragged breathing coming from the small chest. In those moments and with those simple words Elrond knew with certainty that Frodo had decided which path he was destined to take beyond the crisis . . . had decided it was time to let go. The Ringbearer's next words were no surprise, therefore.

"There are letters in my pack. For Bilbo, Sam and a few others."

"I will see that they are delivered." The elf made no attempt to deny the inevitability of the situation, for which Frodo was very grateful. "Are you ready to see that sunset?"

Golden shafts of sunlight were turning to copper upon the wall as Frodo answered. "Yes. I believe I am ready." There was a certainty in Frodo's voice, a tone much like that which Elrond first heard in the Council, so many months ago, in the notes which said, "I will take the Ring . . .though I do not know the way."

With infinite tenderness Elrond carried him from the cabin, along the companionway and up into the glow of closing day.

At the stern of the ship, Gandalf stood with several elves but Elrond turned to the prow and the huge copper disc of the sun, now kissing the horizon beneath a bank of purple cloud carrying the presage of rain. Before the rail, two chairs had been set, one small and lower than the other. And at the rail stood a diminutive figure. Elrond walked towards him and Bilbo smiled up at them although his eyes held a presage similar to the clouds. It would seem that he, at last, was fully aware of what was happening to his nephew.

"Hello, Frodo my lad. It's a lovely evening." His voice held a bright and brittle tone, a mere echo of its former self, as he offered a cup to Elrond. If Frodo noticed the fragility he gave no outward sign and fairly beamed, his smile soft and fragile in the bronze-coppery gold of the waning sun.

"Yes, it is, Uncle, very lovely indeed. I am glad we could enjoy it together." His breath caught a little, and he looked to Elrond for a sip. A cup of warm cinnamon apple juice was offered as his bearer lowered himself gracefully into a chair, settling Frodo in his lap, and the ancient hobbit folded his stiffening limbs into his. Bilbo took the opportunity of Frodo's distraction to dab at his nose and eyes with a bright red hanky.

"If I remember rightly, the last time we shared a sunset, the three of us, it was in Rivendell just before you returned to the Shire, Frodo lad."

Only Elrond noticed how fragile the motion of Frodo's throat seemed: the Ringbearer sipped thirstily, but weakly. Yet he managed a smile, watching his uncle with luminous blue eyes that seemed too large in such a small face, and somehow very far away. "Your memory hasn't failed you. It was indeed." A moment's pause, and the soft, clear voice continued. "And Bag End isn't with the Sackville-Bagginses any longer, and I did write down the whole story. After all, you did teach me to keep my promises, didn't you?"

"That I did. And I am glad that you finished my book." Bilbo cleared his throat; all too aware that if he had nor raised his nephew with such a strong sense of duty he would not by lying in Elrond's arms now. He turned his attention to the sun, no longer a perfect disk, as it was devoured by the hungry horizon.

Elrond offered tiny sips of juice, his voice calm and quiet as his inner mind watched, unhindering, the slowly unravelling skein of Frodo Baggin's life; the small Ringbearer's mithril thread fraying into the fading copper of the sunset. As it passed his own fae the elf stroked it in gentle benediction and the silvery mithril filament caught slightly, as if in farewell embrace.

"I am pleased that you wrote down your story, Frodo Baggins. All should know the price that must be paid for peace."

"I only wanted to keep my promise and leave something for the others to remember it all by." Frodo continued sipping appreciatively taking little mouthfuls of juice. "It wasn't only my story, after all. It was too many people to let it go. Sam promised to have copies for Merry and Pippin, for Great Smials and Buckland, even to be sent to Aragorn and Eomer and Faramir."

Another weak swallow. "My shoulder's warm now . . .comfortable. It doesn't hurt at all . . .nice and warm."

From the stern a chorus of fair voices floated on the air in a familiar tune . . .

"Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate,  
And though we pass them by today,  
Tomorrow we may come this way  
And take the hidden paths that run  
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.  
Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,  
Let them go! Let them go!  
Sand and stone and pool and dell,  
Fare you well! Fare you well!  
Home is behind, the world ahead,  
And there are many paths to tread  
Through shadows to the edge of night,  
Until the stars are all alight.  
Then world behind and home ahead,  
We'll wonder back to home and bed.  
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,  
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!  
Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,  
And then to bed. And then to bed."

The voices faded but Frodo felt Elrond's chest move as he drew breath and a strong and slightly deeper voice sang out alone into the fading day.

Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate;  
And though I oft have passed them by,  
A day will come at last when I  
Shall take the hidden paths that run  
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.  
Moon and Star, Sky and Sun  
Though I may fade, will not be done.  
Flower and tree, water and loam  
I'll join you all when I come home.

A soft sigh escaped Frodo’s lips. "When I come home" he murmured, almost-drowsily. "When I come home . . ." Blue eyes fluttered closed, half-reopening to look up at Elrond. "Please give Lady Celebrian my regards, and the others." Frodo's eyes closed once more, his breathing slowing, growing increasingly shallow. 

No longer able to hold back his tears, Bilbo pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to muffle his sobs and Gandalf came to stand behind, laying a strong hand upon the small hunched shoulders. The wizard's kindly blue eyes met Elrond's then looked down at the small bundle in the elven healer's arms. No more healing could be done now. The fabric was in tatters, like a spider's web after a storm, and Lord Elrond of Imladris, son of Earendil, took one of Frodo's tiny cold hands in his. "It will be my honour, Frodo Baggins of the Shire."

Three miniature fingers, slender and once-nimble, curled around Elrond's as the Ringbearer’s breathing grew ragged then evened, further slowing into a peaceful, even rhythm . . .  
. . .and slowed . . . and stopped.

The tiny mithril thread of song flickered, extinguished.

Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, Ringbearer, lay motionless in the elven lord's arms, his hand still clasping Elrond's, as the last copper shimmer of sunlight faded into twilight.  
And as the last trailing notes of Frodo's song sped past Elrond's fae the elf reached out. Gathering a few notes from his own symphony he entwined them in the mithril thread and plucked a small string of melody from Frodo, weaving it into his own opus. Bending down, Elrond placed a soft kiss upon the cooling brow and then laid a hand upon his own breast.

"You will not be forgotten, Frodo. You will never be forgotten."

And a voice was raised in song . . .a single clear, dark soprano voice, Galadriel, singing a soft dirge. It came to pass, in later years, that those who saw this said she wept. Others gave no such report. But it was said by those who had seen Valinor in its glory that the melody was one they had heard there after the Darkening of the Trees, and as such was of a sadness that Middle-earth had never heard before or since.

As if the world itself wished to join in the mourning the dark clouds finally released their burden, washing all in their soft fall of tears.


	10. Safe Haven

Elrond stood at the bow, warm rain blowing unheeded in his face and a soft breeze, filled with sweet fragrance filling his nostrils and whipping wet tendrils of dark hair about his features. Above him, clouds hid the stars of Elbereth, although his heart told him that they were still there, somewhere.

Suddenly voices rose in song behind him and Elrond turned towards the stern, where his fair companions raised a joyful anthem. For a moment it seemed incongruous to him as, at the very centre of the ship, his eyes fell upon the canopy, formed by the flag of his own household, suspended above the small shrouded figure lying on a pile of rich cushions.  
At Frodo's side knelt his Uncle Bilbo. The elves had offered him a chair when it became clear that he did not intend to leave but he had refused even that and his ancient bones were now supported by Gandalf's strong arm about his shoulders.

Elrond did not need to step closer to see the Ringbearer. He had come to know well Frodo's alabaster features. They had tried to cover that face at first but Bilbo would have none of it. He wanted Frodo to see the Blessed Realm. It mattered not to him that the thickly lashed lids were drawn closed on life. The breeze played with the dark curls framing Frodo's face, even teasing at his eyelashes so that it seemed, if one did not study too long, that his lids were flickering in dreams and would soon open once more to reveal sparkling eyes the colour of warm summer skies.

Galadriel and her ladies had lovingly stitched the pure white shroud and attached to it, upon his breast, was a small square of patchwork fabric, its delicate blue primula’s the remembered colour of Frodo’s eyes.

Fair voices changed song and Elrond's heart let go its burden as their words turned the key to his grief . . .

Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate;  
And though I oft have passed them by,  
A day will come at last when I  
Shall take the hidden paths that run  
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.  
Moon and Star, Sky and Sun  
Though I may fade, will not be done.  
Flower and tree, water and loam  
I'll join you all when I come home.

Home. Frodo had known, near the end, that he would not see the Undying Land. But he had also known that he was going home. Illuvatar could not have sung such a loving and true-hearted being as Frodo Baggins into life to discard him at the end. Elrond knew that the Creator had made a place for elves, so why not for hobbits? He looked once more at Frodo's pale face. Peaceful. The features were relaxed, the pale lips bowed in a soft smile.

"Safe journey, Frodo Baggins of the Shire," the former Lord of Imladris whispered as he turned back to the prow.

The grey rain curtain turned to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. And Elrond heard the sound of singing coming from over the water, blending with the voices of his companions.

 

EPILOGUE  
In the corner of a sunny meadow a lone figure knelt amongst a sea of wild flowers. Before him rested three small marble markers . . . the only three of their kind in this Undying Land.

A long fingered hand gently wiped away the dust on their polished surfaces. No moss was allowed to gather here. Simple words were carved deep into the pale stone. On the stone to the right were the words, "Bilbo Baggins, Adventurer". On the one to the left were carved the words, "Samwise Gamgee, Friend of Friends". And on the small stone in the centre, nestled between the two most dear to him in life, were graven the words,

"Frodo, He Gave All."

THE END


End file.
